


lovers of the sun

by exactly13percent



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - No Exy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 19:25:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17855576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exactly13percent/pseuds/exactly13percent
Summary: In world full of magic, Andrew can't seem to keep himself warm—and Neil can't seem to keep himself away.





	lovers of the sun

**Author's Note:**

> For atmosphere: Soda by The Cinematic Orchestra

The flowers are blooming.

Specifically, Andrew’s favorite flowers are blooming. They rise in blue-violet clusters on green stems, dark stripes spreading from the centers of the petals. The flowers are heavy, and they barely shake when the breeze comes through.

Andrew is always tempted to touch them. To run his fingers along the soft petals and feel their velvet.

He never does.

“Aconite,” Aaron recites. He steps carefully on the stone path. His shoes make soft tapping sounds against each step. “Rosemary.”

Andrew sinks down, knees bent up to his chest. His fingers slide up to a stem and he cuts with the scissors. The little snap of the stem echoes up his arm, through his bones, into his heart. Each time he cuts, he has the peculiar feeling that he is cutting a part of himself.

Maybe he is. Or maybe it’s just the magic.

Aaron sighs. His feet come to rest next to Andrew, on the other side of the basket. There are other blooms in it already; roses and dandelions and juniper. There’s basil, too.

Andrew can feel Aaron’s agitation. It mounts with each passing second. Andrew would ignore it—could ignore it, but he’s not in the mood. He doesn’t have the energy to sit out Aaron’s impatience. Not today.

“What?”

The feet on the other side of the basket shuffle. Andrew slides a finger along a blade of the scissors. It feels right under his skin, sharp, cold.

Aaron drops to the ground suddenly, bouncing a little on his haunches. “What…” He licks his lips. Tries again. “Is there a flower for friendship?”

Andrew would laugh, if he could. As it is, he slings his arms on his knees and lets his hands dangle. He looks at his twin and replies, “No flower is magic enough to grow you a friend, Aaron. Sorry.”

“Funny,” Aaron says, but it lacks the usual annoyance. The dry quality most of his comebacks have. He chews on his lip and suddenly, Andrew is irritated. Aaron’s nerves are wearing on him. “I mean…what kind of flowers would you give a friend?”

Andrew stands. He would like not to think about how his immediate instinct is refusal. How he wants to hold his scissors to Aaron’s throat and require an answer.

_No friends._ You must trust to have friends, and when magic permeates nearly everything and everyone, there is no trust. None that Andrew has found.

Andrew reaches for the basket. “What do you want to say?”

Aaron isn’t stupid. He knows what Andrew is asking. He looks down into the patch of blue flowers and there is something quiet in his eyes. Not exactly a longing, but maybe something similar. Maybe its cousin; maybe hope.

_Does he hope I’ll like this person? Or does he hope they won’t stab him in the back?_

“I don’t know. Loyalty, maybe?” Aaron murmurs. He looks at the flowers, but he sees something else. Andrew wants to know. He hates that he wants to know.

The garden senses his irritation. Little crawling vines shift sluggishly as he turns and walks down another path; leaves skitter across the stones and away from his footsteps. Everything retracts just a little, aware of his buzzing agitation. Aware that he needs space.

Andrew likes his garden. This is the only magic he will more than tolerate, and it is half because of the way the flowers respond to him.

Flowers speak. If you’re paying attention, you’ll notice that they listen, too.

There is a patch of tulips in the corner that Andrew stands at. They look up with teardrop heads, lips shut tightly, and Andrew considers them. He asks permission before he cuts like he always does, and the stems part slightly to let his hand through.

Aaron has followed. Andrew can feel him hovering. “Tulips?”

“Blue tulips,” Andrew says. He takes the few that he has asked for and lays them across the basket of flowers and herbs he’s already filled. “This is it.”

It’s not a question, and Aaron doesn’t argue. Andrew stands and walks back toward his cottage, where the windows are a cool blue and the heat has probably escaped once again.

He is used to the cold, by now. It doesn’t matter. As long as it doesn’t touch his garden.

❀

Neil writes slowly. The letters curve softly on the parchment, ink flowering from the tip of his pen, and each word is neat. Precise.

He never used to care much for writing. No one was there to read his letters, and he never had the time to sit and write, anyway. He hardly had the time to dodge curses thrown his way.

The marks on his body prove that time didn’t always help, either.

This is his last letter for the day. The request rests at his left wrist, a little crumpled and hastily written. He thinks Seth wrote it. Anonymity is vital to Neil’s work, so he never asks or presses, but sometimes, he can tell. He can look at the words on the paper and guess. Some people try to write with the opposite hand or change their writing, but it never matters. Neil can tell who wrote each request.

The letter is done. Neil waves a hand over it; his ring flickers with light. The cornflower blue opal blinks with green-pink reflections, and then it quiets. The wind charm is weak. He doesn’t need it to be strong. It only has to dry the ink on the page.

Neil is in the middle of folding the letter when there is a knock at his door. Not at the front end, where the store and request desk are—at the side, where the entrance to his tiny living space is. Neil finishes folding and waves a hand at the door. The lock clicks.

“It’s not safe to let someone in when you don’t know who it could be,” Aaron says testily.

Neil smiles down at his work. He slides the letter into an envelope and braces his hand on the desk again, pen in hand. “Why do you think I didn’t know it was you?”

“How did you, then?”

“The birds told me,” Neil says, his left hand raising to gesture at the ceiling. His right hand finishes writing the name on the letter, and he stows his pen softly in its stand. “They think you look funny today.”

The letter is done. Neil rises to send it, but—

—when he turns, he realizes what the birds were talking about.

Aaron has a bouquet in his hands. He also looks less messy. He’s usually stained with pollen and mysterious liquids, because he doesn’t pay attention when he makes his medicines. One day, Neil had found Aaron with a smear of honey on his forehead. He’d turned terribly red when Neil had swiped it with his finger and tasted.

_You are strange, Josten._

“Do you have a vase?” Aaron avoids Neil’s eyes. He glances around the tiny space; bed, desk, sink, tiny stove. Tiny bathroom.

Neil stares at the flowers. “Why did you bring me flowers?”

“Because I am tired of coming here and seeing nothing but brown,” Aaron says drily. He opens a cupboard over the sink and frowns. He reaches up for a glass and frowns, wiggling his fingers.

Neil smiles. Holds back a laugh. “Let me.”

Neil takes the glass down and goes to wait at the back door. Aaron fills the glass and sets the flowers inside; he is oddly careful with them. More careful than Neil has seen him be with anything.

Anything other than Neil.

Aaron leaves the flowers and joins Neil. “Last one for today?”

“Last one,” Neil agrees. He stands there and closes his eyes a moment; thinks of what he needs. He raises his voice a little and asks, _“Would you send a letter for me?”_

Aaron likes to watch when Neil talks to the birds. When Neil talks to anything, really, that isn’t another person. He says it’s interesting. Neil thinks that’s a nice way to say strange.

A familiar form descends from the nearby trees. Gray, a little rotund, and soft. _“Olive,”_ Neil murmurs. _“Thank you.”_

The pigeon waits patiently for him to tie the letter. She rests on the post beside him until he is done, and then she takes his directions and leaves. He watches her fly off and wonders what it would be like to fly.

Aaron once asked what talking to them was like. How Neil could learn so many languages.

It wasn’t the same, Neil tried to explain. There wasn’t a word for _seed_ or _sun_. It was all just feelings. Impressions. A _thank you_ wasn’t two words, or even one. It was something more nebulous. A note of joy and sweetness.

Neil liked to say it was easier to talk with animals and plants than people. Most people didn’t believe him.

Aaron did, though. Neil turned to look at his friend, still curious. “Really, though. Why?”

Aaron hesitated. It was unusual to see him pause. He ran his fingertips over the rough wood of the standing post between them. “I wanted you to have something nice. And I wanted to say I’m here. I’m your friend.”

Simple. It is all very simple, and Neil is surprised he can understand this. Somehow, he does. He wonders if it’s another kind of magic.

“Thank you.”

❀

There is a stranger in his shop.

Not exactly a stranger, perhaps. Someone strange. A redhead, quiet, with eyes that are too blue.

He has curse marks. A few on his hands and some on his face—one knotted like lightning under his left eye. Somehow, they don’t look ugly. They’re just—

—sad.

Andrew bites his cheek. He unsticks his feet from the floor and walks toward the stranger. “Do you need help.”

The man blinks. Looks over his shoulder as if he didn’t expect anyone else to be around. He doesn’t seem shocked when he looks at Andrew, though. There is even a tiny drop of recognition in his eyes, and that is probably how Andrew knows the stranger isn’t a stranger.

It’s Aaron’s friend.

“I’d like some flowers,” Neil says. “Iris, I think.”

They are for Aaron. Andrew knows this the same way he knows he is looking at Neil. Aaron had described his friend once; had said things like _quiet_ and _watching_. They are all true.

“Follow me.”

Andrew hates leaving the cottage. He doesn’t hold the warmth spell when he walks away, and it always goes cold inside when he leaves. Colder than it already is.

The garden is inquisitive about the new arrival. The vines reach out, probing. Most people shy away, or awkwardly try to avoid stepping on things. Neil doesn’t seem to notice or pay them any attention. He walks steadily, keeping a few feet between Andrew and himself.

Andrew waits. The garden will usually tell him what he needs to know about patrons.

_Good,_ the garden seems to think, but there is a question in the verdict. Curiosity. Andrew tries not to think about it.

“You’re good to them,” Neil says. He is so quiet, Andrew almost doesn’t hear him.

Andrew does not need his compliments. He does not answer. He picks his way down a side path, toward the waving irises. They seem to know he is coming. That is not usual.

All Andrew’s asking doesn’t get him a reply. Not the way most people think. The flowers speak back in another language; they part for him when he asks and tilt their heads toward weeds when he is looking. They cannot tell him what they need in words, so he memorizes every detail and learns what each move and waving leaf means.

The irises bob their heads at him. They are excited. He squints at them and decides it can’t be because of Neil. Absolutely not.

“Don’t worry about the orchids. They’re picky,” Neil says suddenly. “It’s not your fault.”

Andrew freezes.

He knows they are. How does Neil know?

More importantly, how does Neil know about fault?

Andrew bruised a flower, the other day. Asked for orchid and was allowed one, but then the stems bumped against him in annoyance and he jerked his hand back too fast. He’d thought about it for a while.

“You’re talking to them,” Andrew realizes. _Not just asking._

Neil crouches next to Andrew. His palms rest on his knees, his chin on top. He looks down at the irises with his odd blue eyes, and he looks like he wants to touch them, too. He can, Andrew thinks. Neil can ask, and he can get permission.

Except Neil just stares wistfully, like he doesn’t know what he wants, and he smiles a little at the bobbing flowers. “They like you.”

_They like you too,_ Andrew doesn’t reply.

The irises practically fling themselves at Andrew. Like they’re so damn excited to be snipped and handed off to Neil. Andrew sets them in the basket one by one and tries not to think about them excitably wiggling their way up and out toward Neil.

“I like your garden,” Neil says quietly. When he rests his palm on the stone path, the vines inch toward him. He doesn’t look or flinch when they test his hand, probing curiously. They curl around his fingernails and make pleased whorls on his knuckles.

Neil might be the only person besides Andrew and Renee that the garden has touched.

“That’s all,” Andrew says abruptly. He draws himself upright and tries not to think about the way the flowers sway and follow their path back to the cottage.

Neil takes the bouquet from Andrew carefully. He avoids brushing their fingers, and Andrew almost wants it to happen. Wants to feel Neil’s hand and know what it is like.

Instead, Andrew slides a card and a receipt across the counter to Neil. “He’ll like them.”

Neil smiles. “I know.”

❀

One of the birds tells him. A peregrine falcon, Nyma, that darts down from the sky like a feathered rocket. Neil stares in surprise when Nyma hurtles at him. The falcon agitatedly squawks.

_Trouble. Andrew. Garden._

Neil barely hears the rest. He is already sprinting into the forest.

He has known Andrew for three months. Three months since Neil went to his shop to buy irises. Andrew lets Neil help with the picky flowers sometimes. He listens while Neil tells him what the daisies are thinking and how much the sunflowers are enjoying the summer.

It is almost like when Aaron comes to talk with Neil, but it is different. He’s not sure how.

Branches snap at his face. Something cuts him, sharp. He manages a garbled plea and then the trees shift a little, startled. Nothing else touches him. He runs as fast as he can, and Nyma speaks to him from the sky. He says there is trouble.

The cottage is untouched, but the side door is open—

—and then, Neil smells smoke.

His heart races in his ears. He skids through the cottage and bursts into the garden; a cacophony of voices echoes in his ears. Voices asking for help. Fright, shock.

“Andrew? Andrew!” Neil pants. Turns in place, scouring the garden for any sign of the man.

The fire is close. Too close. It is at the edge of the garden, crackling among the trees. Neil races toward it and then—then, he sees Andrew. Sees the man gritting his teeth and trying to work up a water spell.

Fire. Elements are hard to speak to; their language is barren. They do not have all the words that other, complex things do. It is hard for Neil to speak to elements, because their language is hardly a language. But he tries.

He tries when he steps to the edge of the forest, his hands raised. _“Stop,”_ he pleads. _“Stop!”_

Neil wonders what he sounds like. Aaron says when Neil speaks to birds, he sounds like bells. Speaking to fire, he thinks, probably sounds like cracking wood.

The fire acknowledges him. It might understand. But it is raging, and Neil has to yell over and over, until he forgets where he is or that Andrew is there. He yells until he feels hoarse and then he yells even more. He never drops his arms.

The fire never comes closer. It lingers at the edge of the woods and burns itself out.

When the last spark pops, Neil suddenly feels his body. He feels his arms, leaden and sore as they fall to his sides. He breathes slowly, in and out, and his airway rasps. Neil blinks and he thinks he can see Andrew before him.

“Neil. Neil—”

His throat is raw. “Yes,” he says. It hurts. He speaks anyway. “Andrew. You’re fine?”

Andrew looks unconvinced. “That was stupid. You—"

“Is it over?” Neil feels like a flag, like fabric stretched and battered by the wind. He feels emptied of something. Weak and thin.

Andrew’s mouth is a flat line. There is a curious amount of anxiety in his eyes. “Yes. It’s over.”

Just like that, it is done. Everything leaves him in a rush, and Neil falls to the ground. He thinks he apologizes to the flowers; he feels terrible that he might fall on some. He doesn’t hear their answer before he passes out.

❀

Andrew thinks Neil would hate to crush the flowers. He goes to catch Neil, but the resounding _no_ from the garden is enough to give him pause. The garden refuses. Andrew is surprised enough to let it have its way.

He is surprised when the garden reaches up—when the vines and flowers rise to meet Neil and lay him down, leaves and petals curling around his body.

“He’s too heavy for you,” Andrew says. “It’s too cold. He can’t stay here.”

Andrew does not want to fight the garden. He thinks he will have to, though, if it does not relinquish Neil.

_No_ , the garden repeats. Andrew sinks to the ground. He does not think he can use a heating charm on Neil; all his energy is gone from his mossy opal ring. It flickers desperately, as if even the stone knows and wants to help Neil.

_No._ It is softer this time. Andrew listens, and then he feels the earth beneath his palm. Realizes that the flowers beneath Neil are giving their energy away, and there is a steady warmth enveloping Neil.

They are helping him.

They are happy to help him. Andrew thinks about the bobbing blooms. The way the flowers would bounce when Neil visited, and the vines would sneak around his shoelaces and tighten them properly. He thinks about the garden _waking up_ when Neil came over, and the silly look on Neil’s face when he talked to the flowers.

How he would just _stare_ at them and never _do_ anything.

Andrew wraps his arms around his legs and waits.

He can wait. He can wait as long as he needs to.

❀

_You’re safe,_ the garden whispers. The flowers brush against his cheeks. _Safe._

Neil is groggy. He blinks and twists his hands to feel the grass beneath them. The blades whisper but he doesn’t listen too closely. They are always saying secret, quiet things. They sometimes repeat echoes of conversations they’ve heard, so Neil tries not to pay attention.

He doesn’t want to eavesdrop on Andrew.

Andrew. Neil notices he is there, arms around his legs. Andrew has a little halo of fireflies. It’s dark outside already.

“The garden?” Neil asks.

Andrew’s mouth pulls into a half-frown. “It’s fine.”

Neil draws up. He is confused for a moment, and then he realizes there are flowers and leaves beneath him. He can’t place what he feels when he sees the petals pressed into the earth, so he whispers, “Oh, no.”

Andrew is quiet. He watches Neil brush a hand over the earth. He is probably wondering what Neil is saying to the garden.

It’s simple. _“I’m sorry.”_

_Safe,_ the garden says again. Pleased, forgiving. _Safe._

“They wanted to help,” Andrew says. He knows that Neil knows, but he says it anyway. Neil looks back toward him. The little fireflies dance lazily. “You shouldn’t have done that. I—”

Andrew stops short. Neil waits, and he thinks maybe he’s been waiting a long time.

Maybe he’s been trying all the wrong languages.

“I wanted to help you,” Andrew finally says. It is sweet and then he says, “Don’t do that again. Fool.”

Neil laughs. He looks down at his knees; there is a vine curled around his leg. Little buds poke at his feet, curious. Checking for any injuries, perhaps.

“Stop that.”

Neil looks up. “Stop what?”

“You keep looking at them like that.”

“Like what?” Neil swallows.

❀

Now Neil is looking at Andrew. He is looking at Andrew like he looks at the flowers, but that should not be possible. It is not possible.

Neil looks at the flowers like he wants to touch them. He should not want to touch Andrew. He should not care.

Except Neil does care. He ran through a forest to reach Andrew, and he held a fire back by asking it to stop. Neil cares enough to be sorry that he fell on the flowers, and he cares enough about so many things that Andrew hates it.

“Like that,” Andrew says. “You’re doing it.”

Neil licks his lips. It is hard not to follow his darting tongue, or the way his eyelids flicker. Neil answers in a whispered confession. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Andrew almost reaches out. He itches and burns—feels like he’s been covered in a pile of nettle leaves. He looks at Neil and asks, “What do you want?”

Neil is wide-eyed. Those damned blue eyes, like the hyacinths that he sits among. Like Andrew’s favorite flower. “Can I touch you?”

“Yes.” _Yes, god damn it,_ Andrew waits and waits and feels like he’s been waiting forever.

Neil’s hands wander closer. They feel—

—soft. Oddly soft; softer than Andrew expected. There are a few calluses from writing, but Neil’s hands are gentle. Careful. He holds Andrew’s face like Andrew is a flower. Like he could bruise.

Neil’s voice is hushed. “What is it you ask the flowers, Andrew?”

They are too close. Too close to ignore. Andrew tilts his head—pushes his cheek into Neil’s touch. _This is how it feels?_

“Yes or no,” Andrew says, he asks, _he wants._

Neil’s eyelids are already falling shut. “Yes,” he breathes.

Andrew kisses Neil in the garden. He cannot distinguish between the hyacinths and _Neil_ ; cannot untangle the smell of flowers and the smell of the person before him. Andrew doesn’t know the difference between the petals beneath his hands and the lips he is kissing. He isn’t sure how to distinguish the nectar of the flowers and Neil’s sweetness in his mouth.

Such a strange man, Andrew thinks. Such a strange flower.

He is glad for the touch, and he is glad they share a language. Andrew sits and kisses Neil, feels the hands on his face, and realizes he isn’t cold.

Andrew thinks he might never be cold again.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this! I found myself far more invested than I expected to be. I'd like to explore this AU more sometime.


End file.
